


One Thing We've Got

by IrisCalasse



Category: Breakfast at Tiffany's - Truman Capote, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cats know everything, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, F/M, Getting to Know Each Other, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Meet-Cute, No Ron-Bashing, Pop Culture, Post-War, Suggestions of gay, ToriMione is a thing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:33:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26786770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrisCalasse/pseuds/IrisCalasse
Summary: Over a decade after the Second Wizarding War, Draco Malfoy is a broke socialite straddling the Muggle and magical worlds. One day a new neighbour moves in his residential complex. What has happened to Hermione Granger to make her hide from Ronald Weasley? If Cormac McLaggen is gay, why is he hanging around Granger so much? And why does her cat seem to know way too much about everything?Based on the plot of Breakfast at Tiffany's, but set in 2012 London with a magical twist. Updates every 16th of the month.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 25
Kudos: 30
Collections: Dramione RomCom Fest





	1. The Meet-Cute

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [DramioneRomComFest](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/DramioneRomComFest) collection. 



>   
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> **Prompt:** Breakfast at Tiffany's (1961)  
> Alpha'd by **PeachPenguin91**  
>  Brit-picked and beta'd by **Ladycrafter**  
>  Aesthetic by **DarkAngelOfSorrowReturns**

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco meets Hermione in the Muggle world, after over a decade.

_You say that we've got nothing in common  
_ _No common ground to start from  
_ _And we're falling apart…  
_ _And I said "What about_ Breakfast at Tiffany's _?"  
_ _She said, "I think I remember that film  
_ _And as I recall, I think we both kinda liked it."  
_ _And I said "Well, that's one thing we've got."_

_(Deep Blue Something, 1995)_

  
  
Draco Malfoy stood in front of Tiffany’s & Co. in Oxford Street, thoughtfully contemplating the window. In the five months that he’d been living in Muggle London, he’d noticed that Tiffany’s would periodically change their window displays. This time, the theme seemed to be some sort of rose garden, with each piece displayed in a romantic little arbour or alcove full of blooming roses and twining vines.

The flowers put him in mind of his mother’s rose garden, back in the Manor. Narcissa Malfoy was many things, but above all she had been proud of her gardens, which she maintained herself with minimal aid from her house-elves. She’d had a herb garden, a water garden, and even a garden dedicated only to bonsai, but her rose bushes had been her particular favourites. Draco recalled with a pang that his mother had been trying to breed a blue variant the summer of his fifth year in Hogwarts, the year the Dark Lord came. She’d spent most of her time in the garden in order to avoid Him. Within a year, the southeast grounds of Malfoy Manor were awash in roses in varying shades of violet and purple. After the war, however, the Manor had been appropriated as restitution for war crimes. He supposed that all the roses would have died by now. Just another thing that the Malfoys had lost.

Honestly, he didn’t even know why he kept coming back to Tiffany’s. Merlin knew he couldn’t afford any of the things on display; not that he would have wanted to buy them, since most of them were mere sneeze-worths compared to the heirloom gold and goblin-wrought silver jewellery that had once belonged to the Malfoys. Still, there was something in the familiar sparkle that called to him in a way that nothing else in the Muggle world had.

After a moment of silent contemplation, Draco reached into his coat pocket and drew out a piping-hot pot of tea. The gilded teapot floated between him and the window as he took out a small porcelain saucer and a matching teacup. He poured himself a cup, not minding the lack of milk or sugar. He’d always had something of a sweet tooth, but tea was an exception; the pureblood Malfoy heir had been raised to enjoy the drink as it was meant to be, clean and unadulterated. Sipping his tea with almost mesmerising slowness, Draco gazed with unfocused eyes at the shiny key-shaped diamond pendants for another few minutes. The hot, pure beverage and the cold, flawless gemstones seemed to be almost homelike, soothing his frazzled soul.

Draco discarded the dregs of his morning pick-me-up onto a nearby planter. He put his things back into his coat pocket, feeling much more like himself. There were many things that could be said for being a wizard, and the ability to carry his own teapot around was one of the top things on his list right now. With a satisfied sigh, he turned away from Tiffany’s and glanced up and down the street. He’d need something more substantial if he wanted to last through the day, and food was not something he stored in his pockets. Seeing that there were hardly any Muggles or cars around yet, he quickly crossed the street and entered his favourite cafe. He didn’t even bother glancing at the menu. A cheese scone, with apple and chutney, would hit the spot quite well, he thought.  
  
“Yer usual brekky, Mr Draco?” the waitress said, smiling cheerily at him. A middle-aged woman with round cheeks and an even rounder body, she was wearing red today and her badge, which bore the name Tráta (he’d idly asked her about it once, and found out it was Irish Gaelic for _tomato_ ), seemed especially apt.  
  
Draco returned the waitress’s smile. “Yes, thank you, Sally,” he said.

* * *

An hour later, Draco had walked back home, a pretentiously upscale residential complex in which he had leased a small flat. To be honest, half the time Draco could hardly afford the rent, but he had to live _somewhere acceptable_ , and this was already pushing the lower limits of where most people of Draco’s acquaintance might abide. He had a job as an assistant antiques curator at Apsley House, but still, most of his income came from little gifts and allowances from old friends and girlfriends-du-jour, given when they would occasionally stay the night. He _needed_ his living quarters to be tolerable to them, or else there was a very real chance that he’d be out on the streets.

Fourteen years ago, no one would ever have imagined a Malfoy depending on the money or tolerance of other people. Malfoys were practically Wizarding Royalty; they could influence people by merely breathing. Draco was pretty sure that his ancestors were rolling in their graves at seeing him -- the last of their long, illustrious pureblood line -- reduced to a broke socialite, renting out a one-bedroom flat in a Muggle neighbourhood, without even a house-elf to do his chores. Working for Muggles to earn just enough for his monthly dues. Kissing up to the likes of the Selwyns and the Edgecombes for a nice dinner on their galleon.  
  
But he was a Malfoy, and he was surviving. Because that was what Malfoys did best.

So when he let himself into the building and heard a familiar voice oozing down at him from his floor -- “Draco, _darling_ ,” -- he looked up and flashed a winning smile at Pansy Parkinson, who was hanging half off the third-floor bannister with an enormous gunmetal-grey feather sticking out of her head. He took to the stairs two steps at a time and was soon beside Pansy. She turned her torso sideways to glare at him, and plumped out her lower lip in a crimson pout. “I’ve been waiting for _ages_ ,” she drawled. “ _Ages and_ _ages_ , Draco. At least thirty minutes. Didn’t you get my owl?”

“No owls in a Muggle neighbourhood, Pansy dearest, Ministry terms,” he reminded her, chucking her gently under the chin before stepping away. He rummaged in his coat pocket, looking for his keys. He pulled them out and was about to unlock his door when a thought struck him. “How did you get in here? Did you use magic to unlock the front door?”  
  
“That woman kept ringing the doorbell until I let her in!” a loud, irritated voice called down from the top floor. Draco grimaced unconsciously before smoothing his expression and looking up at his landlady, a forty-something Muggle widow.

“I’m sorry, Mrs Yunioshi,” he called to her. He took note of her dark expression and sighed inwardly. "I'm very grateful for your patience," he intimated, pitching his voice to a coaxing lilt. "I'd love to show you my… gratitude… some time."

Draco watched as a rather unbecoming blush crept slowly over the woman's birdlike chest and neck, past the cigarette that hung out of the corner of her thin, too-red mouth, and up to the fat pink curlers in her hair. "See that you do!" She spluttered at him, before turning back to her flat in a swirl of faded cotton housedress. He waited a moment, until the clack of her wooden slippers disappeared, and he was sure that she was no longer going out again.

"Oh how the mighty have fallen," Pansy scoffed from the door jamb she was leaning against. She looked like some sort of haute model, dressed in the very latest wizarding fashion and with her raven-black hair impeccably styled (feather notwithstanding) in a severe asymmetrical bob. If pressed, Draco would have said that her liquid silver outfit probably cost his entire salary for the next three months.

"Why are you still here?" he asked her.

"Oh, Draco, Draco," Pansy cooed. "Don't play dumb. You know what I'm here for." She ran her gloved fingers up Draco's arm, over his shoulder and down his chest. "Why don't you come home with me? I could keep you in better style than this."

A vision of himself practically collared as he followed along in Pansy’s wake flashed across Draco’s mind, and he shuddered inwardly. "Not interested, Pansy," he said, finally getting his door opened. He shouldered past her and tried to shut the door in her face, but she put herself in the doorway and refused to budge.

"Come on, Draco. Don’t be a hypocrite or a fool. The Malfoy businesses have failed, nobody wants to hire you, and you've mostly been mooching off old friends and random girlfriends." Pansy raised a finger for each item she listed, then waved her hand in Draco's face. "Why won’t you come home with me? I’d let you do whatever you wanted. For a very..." The hand came back down to Draco’s chest, where it toyed briefly with a button. “Very...” The hand trailed lower and drew a tiny circle against his belly. “Small...” Pansy looked up through her eyelashes, arresting his gaze with his own, and licked her lips. “Price,” she said, her mouth curving into a feral smile as she let her hand rest, at last, on Draco’s belt buckle. 

The blond fought down a shudder of revulsion. He plastered a smile on his face. “Thank you for your… generous offer, Pansy,” he said, pushing her out of his door. “I’ll think about it.”  
  
Draco shoved the door home, locked it, and for good measure, put up every possible anti-Pansy ward he could think of. He’d already banned her entry through the Floo. He rather hoped he wouldn’t have to ward his windows as well. Maintaining wards took up a lot of energy. Then again, any of the activities his unwanted guest was clearly interested in would take a lot of energy as well. At least the thought of wards didn’t make him feel nauseated.

He stumbled to his bedroom and flopped onto the bed, rubbing his face with both hands. He felt something wet seep onto his back. “Fuck!” he yelped, jumping up and thrusting his hands into his coat pocket. To Draco’s dismay, he’d managed to lie down on the teapot -- an 1820 Meissen, originally his grandfather’s -- snapping its spout right off. He quickly used _Evanesco_ on the spilt tea and _Reparo_ on the broken pot. Checking the gilded blue-and-white porcelain for any tell-tale cracks or imperfections revealed nothing of the small accident. The teacup and saucer seemed fine too, their deep blue glaze and golden gilding still clear and unblemished. Draco gave a small sigh of relief and carefully set the tea-things down on the tray on the small bedside table before lying down again. He would have been quite upset if his tea set were damaged beyond repair. They were some of the few remaining nice things he still owned, salvaged from the grubbing fingers of the Ministry only because they probably weren’t aware that fine porcelain could also be valuable.

Draco had almost drifted to sleep when he heard a series of polite, businesslike raps on his door. He wondered who it could be. Couldn’t be Pansy, since he’d cast the wards barely an hour before; as for Mrs Yuniochi, she didn’t so much rap on doors as she banged on them. Was he supposed to meet a girl today? Um… Angela? Pamela? Sandra? ...Rita? Nothing came to mind. The knocking started up again and Draco dragged himself out of bed. “Just a moment,” he called.

He opened his door and was immediately accosted by a large head of wild, bushy, brown curls. The woman they belonged to immediately thrust out her hand. “Hello, I’m your new upstairs neighbour. I’m Hermione…” She trailed off, blinking at him, courtesy giving way to shock. “Malfoy?”

Draco could empathise with her emotions. It wasn’t very often that one would just bump into their former school rival, after not having seen each other for over a decade. He couldn’t resist a mild jibe at her slip of the tongue, however. “I don’t think we’re close enough for that yet,” he quipped, allowing himself a tiny smirk. “You can keep your name.”

She blinked again, like she was trying to figure out if he’d insulted her or not. It seemed like he needed to explain himself. “Granger, I mean. Not Malfoy. I’m pretty sure you’re not in any way related to me.” She still looked a little confused. He assured her, “I was joking. Good to meet you, neighbour.” He grabbed her hand and shook it firmly, for emphasis.

The handshake seemed to restore her senses. “Okay, right. Yes. Nice to meet you. Malfoy. Um. It’s, uh, it’s been awhile.”

“I see you’re just as eloquent as ever.”

“And you’re just as well-mannered,” Granger replied, her nose in the air.

Draco couldn’t help it. He laughed. Reining in his amusement, he added, “I deserved that.” His eyes fell on several boxes and a large cat carrier that were all behind Granger in the hallway. “Would you… um. Do you need help moving those things?”

She looked back at the boxes. “Those?” He nodded. “Nah, they’re just for show. Most of my things are here --” she held out a small handbag “-- those are just props in case Muggles see me moving. And I have help coming later.”

She chewed her lower lip for a moment. Draco found his eyes transfixed on the small, nervous gesture. Had her lips always been so… A number of adjectives jumbled rapidly across his mind, half of them related to ripe fruits, all of them focused on a rather sudden urge to nibble. _Draco, what the fuck._ He wrenched his gaze away from Granger’s plump, moist lips and forced himself to look her in the eyes. “May I… help you with anything else?”

He tried very hard not to notice, but his heart sank a little when her teeth left her lips, only to rise again as she opened her mouth to make enticing shapes. “...use your Floo? I, um, I’m assuming you’re connected to the network?”

 _Oh._ Oh. Yes. She was speaking.  
  
“Y-yes, I am. Yes, you may. Um. Come in --” he backed into his room, motioning for Granger to enter. She brought her cat carrier in but left her boxes outside. “Guess that’s not a prop, huh?” Draco remarked, more to be able to break the awkward silence than any real desire to know. “The -- your cat, I mean.”  
  
“Crooksy?” Granger replied, immediately distracted from her mission of using the Floo. “No, he’s not a prop, the silly dear. Would you like to meet him?”  
  
She looked so proud that Draco couldn’t refuse her. She set the cat carrier on the floor and knelt in front of it. A quick press of the lock on the grill and she had thrust her hands inside. She immediately pulled out a rather large, fluffy, orange moggie with a pug nose and large, almost gem-like yellow eyes. She held it like a baby with its head and shoulders supported against her chest with one arm, and her other arm carrying the weight of its plush paunch and heavy haunches. “Mrrrraooow,” the cat protested, though it made no move to escape.  
  
“Malfoy, this is my baby Crooksy. He’s two years old,” Granger said. using one hand to wave a white-socked paw in the air. “Crooksy, this is Malfoy. Draco Malfoy. He’s to be our neighbor.” She extended the paw vaguely in Draco’s direction and jiggled it.

Feeling a little silly, Draco reached out a hand and took the paw. “Pleased to meet you, Mr Crooksy,” he said as solemnly as he could.

“Mao,” the cat replied, like a lord deigning to acknowledge a servant. Draco put the murder mitten down and, after carefully gauging Mr Crooksy’s mood, moved his fingertips over to the cat’s belly. He began to rub the tender skin and fine fur in concentric circles. A low rumble began in the feline’s chest.

Granger seemed surprised. “He’s purring!” she exclaimed, her eyes wide. She turned her gaze at Draco, her lips curving upward. Draco’s interest in Mr Crooksy’s belly took a nosedive as his attention flew back to Granger’s mouth. He’d never been able to see her smile, not this close, and not at him. She had a tiny dimple at the corner of her lips. Who knew? She informed him, “He hardly ever purrs for anyone, except for me. Well, he’s friends with Hagrid, Minerva, and Luna. He tolerates Harry and Neville, but practically nobody else. I can’t believe he likes you!”

“Well,” Draco said, with a crooked grin. “Not a lot of people do.”

“Oh,” Granger breathed in a soft voice. Her smile disappeared and the awkward silence returned. She knelt back down, returned Crooksy to the cat carrier, and locked it. “I… guess I, um, I should use the Floo now, and get going.” Her eyes flicked around the room, landing on a small fireplace on the left. “I -- is that it?”

Draco nodded. “Floo powder on the mantel, in the covered jar,” he advised her. “I’ll just go into the other room, give you some privacy."

“Thank you,” she replied politely. He heard the familiar whoosh of the Floo activating and the muted sounds of conversation as he walked into his bedroom and glanced at his bed. The tea hadn’t even dried, and yet he felt like so many things had already happened. He absent-mindedly used a scouring charm on his sheets, adding the small upward twist of the wrist that he’d long ago discovered worked particularly well for removing stains from cloth. Once his bed was clean and dry again, he sat down on the edge and let his mind wander.

_Hermione Granger, huh? What was she doing here?_

She’d mentioned Potter, Longbottom, Lovegood, all to be expected. She’d even mentioned Hagrid and McGonagall. The Brightest Witch of Her Age was clearly in touch with most of her old posse, and relatively recently if they’d interacted with her furbaby. She hadn’t mentioned any Weasleys, however, and this was a surprise. The last he’d seen her -- at his hearing, after the war -- she and Potter had looked attached at the hips to their respective redheads. Yet here she was in the Muggle world almost fourteen years later, no Potter, no Weasley, only a cat and enough belongings to fit in a handbag.

_Why do I even care?_

Curiosity, he supposed. If the Malfoys had suffered after the war, he had expected Hermione Granger to have had the exact opposite experience. She would have been a golden girl, given an Order of Merlin, probably had her own Chocolate Frog card, soon to be the youngest- ever Minister of Magic, that sort of thing. And yet here she was, living in the very same building as an ex-Death Eater who had fallen from every possible grace.

A vaguely familiar series of taps sounded on his bedroom door. “Malfoy?” he heard Granger call. “I’ve finished my call. Thank you --”

Draco had bounded to the door and opened it in one swift motion. Granger squeaked when she realised that she was now talking to his chest rather than to his door. Swallowing, she raised her face to his and tried again. “Th-thank you for letting me use your Floo,” she repeated. “They, um, they said they’d come by and fix my connection within the week.”

It had taken him over three months of petitioning before they’d allowed him to get a Floo connection in the Muggle building. And they’d completely disallowed his petition to keep an owl, though he’d kept trying. Owl or Floo, choose, they’d finally told him, and of course he’d opted for the Floo. “Must be nice,” he mumbled, suddenly annoyed.

She caught on immediately, her eyes shuttering. Smart girl. “Perks of being Hermione Granger,” she replied, giving him a lopsided smile as she stepped away from him. “Thanks again, really, Malfoy,” she insisted. “I guess we’ll see each other around?”

He made a non-committal noise. She bobbed her head in a tiny nod before turning around and swiftly picking up her cat carrier. “Come on, Crooksy,” she murmured, heading for the door. Draco followed after her so he could close the door and restore the wards. He didn’t immediately close the door after her, however. He had the vague feeling of not wanting her to leave just like that.  
  
“Um, Granger, listen,” he began, causing her to stop right outside his door, put down the carrier, and turn around. “I, uh.” It occurred to him that he should apologise, but he didn’t know what for. In fact, wasn’t he the one who was annoyed? Shouldn’t _she_ be apologising to _him_? He scratched his head, suddenly at a loss.

“Hey, Hermione.”

Granger, who’d been looking at him expectantly, immediately turned towards the voice. “Oh -- hey, Cormac. What took you so long?”

The newcomer leaned down and bussed Granger on the cheek, which she accepted easily. “Met an acquaintance outside and stopped for a bit of a chat,” he said breezily.

Granger gave a delicate sniff and hit the man’s shoulder lightly. “You were smoking.”

He grinned at her. “Can’t hide anything from you, huh? Hey, who’s this?” He’d finally noticed that Granger wasn’t alone. He looked Draco over, frowning. Draco straightened just a little under the scrutiny. He’d grown taller and more muscular in the years since they’d graduated; still, the other bloke was perhaps an inch or two taller than he was, a bit wider around the shoulder and the waist, with clearly-defined biceps that seemed uncomfortably tight in their sleeves. The bloke rubbed his five-o’-clock shadow thoughtfully with the tip of his thumb. “He looks kind of familiar…”

Granger -- who, Draco noticed, had hardly grown taller since Hogwarts, but had certainly filled out along the bust and the hips -- stood at attention as well. “I’m sorry! Where are my manners?” she said. “Cormac, this is Draco Malfoy, my new neighbour. He was in my year in Hogwarts. Malfoy, this is Cormac McLaggen, my decorator. He was two years above us.” She hadn’t specified their houses, Draco noticed, from which he surmised that McLaggen was a Gryffindor and likely to hold animosity towards Slytherins. Though he didn’t think that would help too much.

“A Malfoy, eh,” McLaggen said, finally extending his hand.

Draco took it and gave it a firm but very brief shake. He didn’t like the look of this guy. “Pleasure,” he said anyway, just to be polite.

“Right, well, we’ve got to finish moving you in, Hermione _dearest_ ,” McLaggen promptly said, chivvying Granger along as if Draco was no longer there. The beefy decorator grabbed the cat carrier's handle, but a loud yowl from an irritable Crooksy made him quickly let go of it. He hefted one of Granger’s boxes instead and motioned for her to get going. Sighing, Granger picked up the cat carrier herself and started up the nearest flight of stairs.

Draco watched her until she turned a corner and was out of sight.

* * *

Later that evening, Draco had just finished a frugal supper of thinly-sliced rotisserie chicken when he heard loud, drunken laughter filter in from the hallway. A few minutes later there was a series of muffled curses, and he felt his wards come down.

“Drakey-poo! Where are you? Come and have some fun with us!”

 _Fuck._ He should’ve known Pansy would be back, and that she’d find a way around his wards. The woman was more single-minded than an erumpent chasing down a red cloak. From the sound of it, she hadn’t come alone either. He supposed that he could imagine worse fates than being caught in a sandwich of two or more bored, horny socialites with more money than they knew what to do with, and more silicone than they had brains. To tell the truth, though, at the moment the idea gave him about as much pleasure as the thought of having another stint in Azkaban did.

“Draco!”

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck._ Pansy’s voice was getting closer. Any moment now she’d barge into his bedroom, and he’d either have to hex her or have sex with her.

“Can’t I just have a normal, boring life?” he grumbled. His gaze flicked to the window, where the rails of the fire escape could just be seen. The latch of his door jiggled. He made up his mind. A moment later he had jumped out of bed, thrown open the panel over the fire escape balconette, and scaled the narrow stairs to the next floor up. He hoped that Pansy would see that he’d left his wand on his bedside table and assume that he was merely in the toilet or something. Still, he couldn’t expect her not to look through the window, and his current perch was perfectly visible from his landing. No, he needed to hide.

He crept up a little higher. Now he was level with Granger’s flat -- at least, he figured it must be hers, considering that she was sprawled on the bed, fast asleep. He was just about to knock when he saw that McLaggen fellow emerging from the ensuite. McLaggen took a look at Granger, saw that she was sleeping, and shrugged. He picked up a book from her bedside table and slid what appeared to be several Muggle notes into it. He then replaced the book and quietly sneaked out. Draco counted to ten silently, but McLaggen failed to reappear. He supposed the other man must have truly left.

In all this time, Pansy had not yet poked her head out of the window. Perhaps his ruse had worked. However, Draco still wasn’t ready to go back to his flat, and he was beginning to feel cold and cramped. He began to rap on Granger's window. Granger stirred groggily, but as soon as she noticed Draco on her balconette she was out of bed.

“What are you doing there?” she demanded, sliding open one panel just enough to enable her to poke her wand out and point it at his face. She had an expression that might have been suspicious but was mostly sleep-addled and, for some reason, so completely adorable that Draco disregarded her as any possible threat.

“Trying to escape Pansy,” he replied truthfully, pushing her wand away from his face with one finger. She offered no resistance. “It’s cold and I left my wand downstairs. Please would you let me in?” She blinked a bit, clearing the sleepiness from her eyes, then opened her window fully to let him come through. “Thanks,” Draco said, closing the window himself and drawing her curtains together for good measure. Pansy would never find him now. All he had to do was hide here until that harridan got tired of waiting for him and went home.

“You know,” Granger mumbled, sitting down heavily on her bed and stuffing her wand back under her pillow, “it’s really not a good idea for a single woman like me to let random strange men like you into their flats.”

“So, does that mean that McLaggen guy was someone special? A boyfriend perhaps?”

She looked at him like he’d grown two heads. “What? No. I told you. He’s my decorator. Cormac’s gayer than a rainbow unicorn -- he was only ever interested in me as a beard.”

Draco grunted. It sure didn’t look like McLaggen wasn’t interested in Granger, but he wasn’t about to correct her lest she send him out to face Pansy.

Hermione rubbed her eyes, trying to wake herself up. “D’you want tea or something?” she asked, still a gracious host despite being groggy and dressed only in a ridiculous pair of button-up jammies.

“Tea would be great,” the blond wizard responded. He settled on the only seat he could find: a plush, royal blue, velvet, Lawson armchair that was obviously repurposed from the living room. It was tucked right up to a table that apparently would be serving as both desk and vanity, if the assortment of books, boxes, and feminine bits and bobs that littered its top were any indication.

“Okay,” she said, getting up and shuffling out to her kitchenette. Draco could hear the rustles and clinks of her movements. Mr Crooksy slinked into the room, looked around, and promptly sauntered up to his Lawson. The large orange critter sat on its haunches in front of Draco and glared at him with judgmental yellow eyes, swishing its tail in annoyance.

“Am I sitting in your chair?” Draco asked the cat, feeling nonplussed. “Well, I got here first, okay? You’ll just have to find somewhere else.”

In response, the cat said, “Mrrr.” It jumped up into his lap, where it proceeded to knead his thighs in a circle and then curl up, tucking its front paws under its body while its tail lay twitching every now and then against its stomach. Draco wanted to push it off, but then it began to purr, and he suddenly discovered that he lacked all desire to disturb it.

Granger finally returned, two thick, ceramic mugs (not cups) on a small bamboo tray. She noticed her familiar immediately. “Ah, I see the master has caught you under his paralysis spell,” she noted with a half-smile that made Draco’s belly do a tiny flip. She sat on her bed and put the tray down beside her, then picked up one of the mugs and held it out to Draco. “Earl Grey alright?” 

Draco glanced at the mug, which appeared to contain nothing but tea, and then at Granger. “Aren’t you going to offer me anything? Lemon, milk, honey? Sugar maybe?”

She looked a little startled, then abashed. “Sorry, I didn’t think. I don’t usually take tea with anything, so I --”

He put out one hand to stop her rambling. “ _Pax_ , Granger, I was just surprised. Most people would offer, but I would’ve refused everything anyway.” He tasted his tea and smiled at the familiar flavour; apparently, Granger made tea just like the Malfoy house-elves did. “I may be a thirty-two-year-old social washout, but I’m not a barbarian.”

Granger let out a titter before she could stop herself. She covered her mouth with the back of her hand, but he still heard a muffled giggle escape. “ _Barbarian?_ ” she asked, once she’d calmed down a bit. “That’s a bit extreme for a bit of lemon in tea, isn’t it?”

“Mother was always very particular about how tea should be drunk. Tea had to be at a certain temperature, steeped for a precise amount of time, depending on the kind of tea it was, but always, always in its purest form,” Draco explained. “When we were seven, Theodore Nott came over. Mother had the elves make tea, and of course, they served it the way she liked it. Theo had the audacity to ask Mother for a splash of milk, said he couldn’t drink just 'hot leaf juice'. Mother called him a barbarian and sent him home; he was never allowed back to the Manor.”

Granger’s attempt at restraint failed at that point. She had to put down her drink, she was laughing so hard. “I don’t even know Nott and I already feel sorry for him!” she said, between bouts of laughter. She wiped her eyes with a finger. “I’m glad to know that I might be a Mudblood, but I’m not a barbarian.”

“Oh no, you’re not a barbarian,” Draco said, putting on an exaggerated posh accent and thrusting out his pinky aggressively as he lifted his mug for a sip. “Serving your tea in _mugs_. How utterly _plebeian_ , but it’s not _barbaric_.”

Granger dissolved into giggles again. She sounded so amused that Draco found himself chuckling as well. He supposed the story was a little ridiculous, but was it really that funny, or did Granger just laugh far too easily? He’d never had the chance to be the one to make her laugh, before. It wasn’t a bad thing at all, to make her laugh. He thought he rather liked it.

“Do you know,” he said once she’d calmed down a little, “I’ve never heard you laugh before? I’ve known you since we were eleven, but, well.”

“We never really had the chance to do this before,” Granger replied evenly.

He fiddled with his Earl Grey, turning it around in his hands, suddenly unable to look directly at her. He wanted to say something, perhaps apologize for being a bully, for calling her a Mudblood, for having become a Death Eater, but nothing came easily to his lips. The moment passed into an uneasy silence.

Finally, Granger spoke up again. “Crooksy really seems to like you. He’s asleep.”

Draco looked down at the orange fur ball on his lap. The cat really had dozed off, even though it was still purring quietly. He took a deep draught of tea and put his mug down on the desk beside him. Then he carefully, carefully ran a hand through the soft fur of the cat’s body. It opened one eye a sliver and looked at him, then went back to sleep.

“I’ve always liked cats, but I’ve never had one,” he confessed, still gingerly stroking the cat. “You had one, though. In school. Looked like this one, I remember, but no socks.”

Granger smiled reminiscently. “Crookshanks,” she said, taking a sip of her drink. She looked as if she were somewhere far away. “My half-kneazle. I bought him from Magical Menagerie back in third. He died last year.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Draco muttered, contrite. He just kept putting his foot in his mouth, didn’t he?

“It’s alright. You didn’t know. Besides, he was quite an old man when he went. And he left me his son for company." He didn't need to see her point at his lap to know that she meant Crooksy. The name and the babying made a lot more sense now.

"Funny you remembered Crookshanks," she added after a moment, tapping her mug with a finger reflexively. "I didn't bring him around much, not like I do Crooksy now. I had too many books to carry, back in school."

"Like I said, I like cats," Draco replied. "Rather more than I like a lot of people, to be honest. I didn't know anyone well outside of Slytherin, but I knew most of the feline familiars, at least by sight." Mr Crooksy had begun to make tiny flexing motions with its toes, scritching its claws against his pants, so he carefully lifted the marmalade moggy a little and put its chin and paws over one of his fists instead. Better to get scratched than to have his pants ruined -- he wasn’t very good at household repair charms, but he did have a small supply of dittany.

"You sound a bit like me," Granger remarked as she observed his actions. "Plain tea, cat person.” She raised her Earl Grey towards Draco in a casual toast. “I bet you accidentally petted McGonagall when you didn't know she was an Animagus."

"How did you --" Draco's eyes narrowed in suspicion, then widened as he realised. "You did too! Didn't you?"

"I reserve the right to remain silent," Granger retorted, but she was smiling. "So tell me… you liked cats, but you didn't have one. Any pets? I seem to remember a rather large owl that used to bring you packages."

"Ah, that would be Periphas," Draco nodded. "He was my father's eagle owl. My parents didn't bother having me bring an owl to school, since they were writing to me practically every day anyway. If it wasn't Periphas it would be Odysseus, Mother's great grey." With his free hand, he picked up his drink and skolled it; the tea was growing tepid. He put down the mug with a faint clatter; in his lap, the cat’s ears perked up as it woke up and looked towards the source of the sound.

"I take it your family likes Greek mythology," Granger said. She held out her fingers to her cat when it turned its head towards her; it promptly stretched and hopped off Draco’s lap. He followed its motions a bit covetously as it went up to Granger and butted her fingers.

"If I’d had a cat, I’d name it after mythology,” he said. Granger’s cat had decided that it no longer wanted to be with the humans, and minced out of the room with its bottlebrush tail held high in the air. Draco turned his full attention to Granger. “My horse was named Minos -- why are you looking at me like that?"

She raised an eyebrow at him, as if it were obvious. "Of course you'd have a horse," she snorted.

"Well, yes,” Draco shrugged, still not getting her reaction. What was so strange about having a horse? Most of the people he knew had horses. Well, the wizarding people, he amended. Muggle people didn’t seem to have horses. Was Granger’s reaction a Muggleborn thing, then? Maybe he ought to elaborate a little. “Father and Mother had them too. And we had peafowl in the gardens, and Father's hounds. We had a lot of pets."

“What happened to them?”  
  
It was an innocent question, but his face darkened at the memory. _Blood, fangs, sickly yellow light. The shrieks of frightened animals. The smell of pain and terror._ He pushed his tea away, having lost all appetite. Taking a deep breath, he said, “Except for the owls -- gone, between fifth and seventh. Some people liked a bit of sport, and others were always hungry.” He didn’t add details, but from the look on Granger’s face, she knew exactly who and what he meant.  
  
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, fisting her hands into the sheets on either side of her thighs.

“Wasn’t your fault,” he replied. “You helped stop it. Potter’s Golden Girl and everything.” Trying to distract himself, he searched for a different topic. “ **What do you do, anyway?** ”

She took the line, probably just as eager as himself to avoid awkward conversations about events at Malfoy Manor. “ **I’m a writer, I guess.** ”

His brow furrowed lightly. “ **You guess? You don’t know?** ”

“Alright, fine,” she said, smiling a little. “ **Positive statement. Ringing affirmative. I** **_am_ ** **a writer.** ”

He smiled back. He seemed to be smiling a lot recently. “Anything I’ve read?”  
  
“I'm guessing not. But you’ve probably seen it. It’s kind of been everywhere...” She pointed at one of the piles on the table, a brown paper package tied neatly up with a bit of red string.

“May I?” Draco asked. When Granger nodded, he carefully undid the knot and unwrapped the paper, taking care not to tear it. He saw her smirk out of the corner of his eye but chose not to comment. Instead, he lifted out one of the books, running a finger gently over the lightning-bolt shaped font of the title. “ _Harriet Flutter and the Sacred Reliquaries,”_ he read aloud, “ _by H. J. Granger_.” His eyes roved over the cover, taking in a girl with wild, almost serpentine black hair, brilliant green eyes, oversized glasses, and a large lightning-shaped scar on her forehead. She sat astride a silver-white dragon with bleeding eyes, which seemed to be about to take off. Behind her, a boy with close-cropped, curly brown hair and large teeth clenched a wand with one hand and the dragon’s side with the other. Clambering over the dragon’s tail was a girl in scruffy robes, whose bright red hair and smattering of freckles proclaimed her immediately to be a Weasley. The redhead was clutching a rag which contained something that looked like an ancient golden cup.

“It’s basically a fictionalisation of what Harry, Ron, and I went through, right before the Battle of Hogwarts,” Granger was saying. “The girl with black hair is Harriet Flutter. Behind her are her adoptive brother, Herman Gremory, and their best friend Rhonda Beezley. They have to collect seven valuable artefacts that, when combined with three ancient reliquaries, form a weapon to destroy the fearsome Lord Moldywart, an evil, snakelike Dark Wizard, who has taken over their hidden school on the Moon, called Pigfarts.”

Draco blinked slowly at Granger, at a loss for words. At length she chuckled, running a hand through her hair. Draco’s eyes followed her hand as he idly wondered how she could possibly do that without getting her fingers hopelessly tangled. Would his fingers slip right through? Or would he be caught, helpless to be free of her -- “I know it’s a shite storyline,” she was saying. “So many plot holes and impossibilities -- what kind of evil person raises a child to die at the correct time? And what kind of evil overlord cannot kill a child, even with a host of powerful minions? Except it all really happened. And, well, it sold a lot of copies.”

“You don’t look too pleased about that,” Draco noted.

“I’m not, not really,” she replied, sighing. “The critics called it “high potential prose”. I think it sold because it’s pretty obviously about Harry, and written by me, of course. People bought it for star power, not because it’s good. My editor wants me to write a prequel. Maybe six prequels, starting from Year One. He’s already decided to call it _Harriet Flutter and the Philosopher’s Philtrum_.”

For someone who’d effectively been signed on to write a seven-book series that would probably take over the wizarding world and earn millions of Galleons, she looked deeply discontent, Draco thought. “You don’t want to do it,” he surmised.

She looked even more miserable, if possible. “I don’t,” she agreed. 

“Why?”

“Everybody’s got these ideas,” she said. “I’m Hermione Granger, so I ought to write things like... well, like _Harriet Flutter_. Stories of clear and obvious heroism where the protagonist is absolutely clear about right and wrong, good magic triumphs over bad magic, and everybody gets a lovely little happily-ever-after.”

Draco nodded, meaning to encourage her to continue, but she frowned at him, her eyes narrowing. “You do too?”

“No -- I was just nodding to show I was listening. I’m sorry, go on.”

She huffed. However, her need to rant overrode her indignation, and she was soon speaking again. “I do have ideas. Lots of them! Unfortunately, none of them are what people want to read.” She pointed two fingers at the table again, indicating that there was something else she wanted Draco to see; he put _Harriet Flutter_ down on the pile of its fellows and moved them aside so that he could get the object she was pointing at. It was covered with a thin cloth, but once he removed the cloth, he saw what appeared to be a sort of machine with many letters and knobs. It had a piece of paper stuck in it. The paper had letters in dried black ink.

“What’s this?”

“My typewriter,” Granger replied, sliding her feet out of her slippers and pulling them up to the bed to sit cross-legged. “And one of my newest drafts.”

Draco looked at it carefully and began to read. “ _He didn’t know where else to turn. The ticking of the clock reminded him that very soon, there would be hell to pay. The car engine thrummed idly, waiting for him to decide. Would he stay, or would he go?_ ” His eyes focused on the distinctly non-magical phrase _car engine_ . He scanned the entire page, noting mentions of _television_ and _the Internet_ . “Why, Granger, are you writing _Muggle_ books?”

She shrugged. “I noticed there really aren’t that many books in the genre available at Flourish and Blotts’. You know, books where the protagonists don’t have magic, so they use their brains mostly, and sometimes they fail. So I thought, this is interesting and definitely up my alley; I’d like to write some of them. Turns out they’re not marketable in the wizarding world... at least, according to my publisher. Apparently, **they’re not the kind of stories you can really tell.** ”

“ **Too dirty?** ”

“ **Yeah, I suppose they’re “dirty” too, but only incidentally** ,” Granger said. “We don’t get many people sticking very hard to the _Pureblood good, Mudblood bad_ mantra anymore.” She paused, looking expectantly at Draco; when he stayed silent, her expression went from expectant to reflective. After a moment she shrugged and continued. “My stories… well. **Mainly they're “angry”, “sensitive”, “intensely felt”, and that dirtiest of all dirty words -- “promising”. Or so said** _The Goodreads Choice Awards_ , October 1, 2012 **.** ”

Her wrinkled nose and the way she practically spat out the words said exactly how she felt about those descriptions of her books.

Draco took another glance at the half-typed page. “I think it seems pretty good. I mean, I’d read it, once it’s completed.”

Granger smiled at him. “Thanks. I’d like that.” She watched as he stared at the typewriter for a moment, running his finger over the keys before covering the machine once more and pushing it back to its original position. “Never seen a typewriter before today?” she asked.

Draco shook his head slightly. “It… it’s a Muggle thing, right? I’ve seen Muggles use a similar machine, but it usually has a sort of screen in front of it, with letters and pictures and things. I’ve never seen one with paper in it.”

“You mean a computer? Yeah, most Muggles use those now. My parents have one, and they’ve been trying to convince me to buy a laptop -- that’s a computer you can carry around with you. But they just don’t work too well with magic. So I go old-school.”

“ _Old school_ ?”

“It means, um, traditional? Obsolete?” She laughed lightly. “I suppose there’s nothing less _old-school_ than the way I’ve been living since I was eleven. To most Muggles, magic went out of fashion years and years ago. The way we live… the norms we follow…”

“Me more so than you, I’d say,” Draco replied wryly. “You know, Pureblood traditions and all.”

“I don’t know, actually,” Granger admitted, after a moment. She drew a pillow towards her and tucked it against her stomach and under her chin, cuddling it as she regarded him with thoughtful eyes. “I’ve never really heard or read much about Pureblood things. The Weasleys didn’t care much for them, and Neville was always so quiet about his family. Most of the other Purebloods I knew were in Slytherin, and they’d never talk to me, of course. You wouldn’t have either, back in school.”

Draco nodded slowly. “I was a right git back then. I’m sorry, Granger.”

He heard her take a deep breath. “I know you are,” she said gently. “But, thank you for telling me anyway. I guess, after so many years, it’s nice to hear it from you.”

She seemed to ponder for a bit. “You know, a conversation like this kind of calls for firewhiskey, don’t you think?” She got up from the bed, fishing something from under her pyjama top. She went right up to the desk that Draco was sitting at, and to his surprise bent over. Draco eyed the way the thin cloth of her bottoms pulled taut against a pleasantly-rounded derrière, swallowed, and averted his eyes. After a moment Granger straightened up with a bottle of Ogden’s Finest in one hand, tucking a necklace with a tiny key back under her shirt. She went back to her bed, oblivious to the blush that Draco was pretty sure was staining his face. Giving the stopper an easy twist, she popped it off and took a swig. Her shoulders immediately relaxed as she slouched back onto her headboard and raised her feet.

“Want some?” she asked Draco lazily. “We could share the bottle.” She patted the bed just to her side, evidently meaning for him to sit with her while they drank together.

Draco looked at Granger, then the bottle, the bed, and then Granger again. She looked calm and even a bit expectant. He wondered if she’d done things like this fairly often, and if so, with whom. But then again, how was he to know?

“Does this mean we’re friends now?”

He meant it as a joke, but Granger smiled and nodded, indicating the space beside her again. Draco figured he might as well. He got up from his armchair, crossed the small distance to the bed, and sat down. After a moment he kicked off his shoes and pulled his legs onto the mattress so that he and Granger were sitting side by side, backs against the headboard, only a pillow between them. He reached for the firewhiskey.

“So what else did you want to know?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Text in bold are directly quoted from the film.
> 
> BONUS VISUALS:  
>   
> 
> 
> Mr Crooksy | Part of the Tiffany's Window Display | Pansy's Outfit #1  
> ---|---|---  
>   
> | 
> 
> |   
>   
> Mrs Yunioshi | Draco's 1820 Meissen Teapot | Draco's teacup and saucer  
>   
> | 
> 
> | 


	2. Getting Closer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Draco get closer, and we meet some new characters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta and Brit-picking work done by **Ladycrafter **as usual. Thank you!****

A thin sliver of daylight slanted across Hermione’s eyes, rousing her from dreams involving a faceless blond man who smelled of a subtle mixed bouquet of cocoa and rum. Grunting, she flung her arm over her head in an attempt to block out the light, but it was too late; she was awake. Unable to attain her former state of repose, she struggled out of the coverlet that had been tucked securely around her, and sat up. The motion caused a throbbing pain to awaken in her temples, followed by a wave of nausea. She whimpered and wondered if maybe she ought to just stay in bed the whole day.  
  
  
“Mao?”  
  
  
A ginger angel had leapt gracefully over the foot of her bed, navigating the landscape of kicked-off blankets with ease, and seated himself at her right hand. He dropped a small, blue, cloth drawstring pouch in front of her, just as she had taught him to do.  
  
  
“Bless you, Crooksy,” Hermione groaned, ruffling the cat’s fur briefly before reaching for the pouch and shaking out the vial of Sober-Up Potion that was stored inside for days just like this. She popped open the bottle with her thumb and quickly downed the draught, keeping her eyes closed as the astringent liquid trickled down her throat. She kept her eyes closed and counted seconds out silently, the way she’d learnt in Muggle primary school -- _one chimpanzee, two chimpanzees_ \-- stopping before she even reached _three_ . The pain was gone and she felt great. Oh, the wonders of magic!  
  


Sobriety brought full wakefulness to Hermione, and with it, recollection of the previous night. Had she really made friends with Draco Malfoy? Did they really bond over mugs of tea and a bottle of firewhiskey? In the morning light it seemed like a strange sort of imaginative trip, but the Sober-Up left no room for alcohol-induced fuzz. Which meant that the rest of her memories were true as well...

  
Absent-mindedly making the observation that Crooksy had settled into his favourite part of the bed and begun the serious task of grooming himself, Hermione carefully began to examine what she remembered of her late-night activities. She had a very, very clear mental snapshot of sitting together with... Draco, she supposed she ought to call him now… their backs to the headboard as they alternated tippling from the same bottle and sharing progressively more private tales. Sometime after she’d told the blond former-git about secretly enjoying Harry’s habit of trying to finger-comb her hair whenever he felt guilty towards her and wanted to stop her from nagging, she’d begun to nod. She’d dropped off completely as her new friend was telling her about the time he’d been traumatized by walking in on Vincent Crabbe boffing a pillow that was surprisingly well-transfigured into a facsimile of Luna Lovegood. And then she’d… Merciful Merlin, had she fallen asleep while sitting down, her head on his shoulder?

  
But -- but she’d awoken under the covers. _Properly tucked in_. She glanced around and noted that her window was slightly ajar, with the curtains drawn back. The firewhiskey and tea-things were gone. No Draco in sight. 

  
There was, however, a small note tucked under the pile of _Harriet Flutter_. It had evidently been pilfered from her typewriting paper, though she didn’t see her inks or quills out. Still in a mild muddle over the events of the previous night, she opened the note and began to read it.

_Dear Granger,_ (it said, in excellent penmanship)  
  
 _Thank you for your hospitality last night. You are asleep, but it is close to daybreak and I have to excuse myself from the pleasure of your company. I have taken the liberty of cleaning up our evening's repast, as well as settling you into your proper place of repose. I have also performed a service for the most esteemed master, who told me in no uncertain terms that he needed his litter-box, and that his food bowl was not adequately filled. I do not know where you keep His Highness’s kibble, so I shook the remainder of his supper over the bottom of his bowl, and he seemed to be content._

_If acceptable, I would like to invite you to a private dinner at my flat tonight at six. You needn’t bring anything, just yourself, though Mr Crooksy is welcome should you wish to bring him along._

_I sincerely hope that you will find it in your heart to drop by, as I should love the opportunity to continue our conversations._

_Yours,_

_Draco Malfoy_

Hermione couldn’t remember the last time she’d received such a formally-written missive; not even Ministry owls had such antiquated prose. The overall effect was one of elegance, even though basically all Draco had said was _Thank you. I left while you were sleeping but I cleaned up and I pretended to feed your cat. Come to dinner._ She got stuck on _Yours, Draco Malfoy._ Her mind protested at the familiarity. Not even _Harry_ ever signed his letters with “Yours” (not the expected "Faithfully", the standard “Sincerely”, or even the dependable “Yours truly”, but just… “yours”, as if she _owned_ him somehow). Viktor had, when they’d been dating, and Ron… but that was different!

  
She felt warmth blooming on her cheeks. Horrified, she slapped both hands against her cheeks, startling Crooksy. He glared at her from behind one acrobatically-raised hind leg as if trying to determine whether the noise she had made was worth bothering with. Seeing that his human had frozen into an open-mouthed tableau, the orange cat decided that Hermione’s problems weren’t worth his time, and he went back to carefully gnawing at a matted tangle of fur that he had noticed in between his toe beans.

  
By the time Crooksy had moved on to grooming his ears, however, Hermione had come out of her funk. She scrambled out of bed and finally started her day.

* * *

Five forty-five that afternoon found Hermione heading down two floors to the flat she knew was Draco’s, carrying a bottle of rosé that she’d picked up that weekend but hadn’t yet got around to opening. She hoped the mild, semi-sparkling wine would be an acceptable present to her host; she wasn’t very well-versed in spirits (okay, she didn’t know her alcohols at all) but she did enjoy the sweet, fruity taste of this particular Muggle brand. She had first tried it in Provence back in the summer before fourth when her parents had taken her on a family trip.Her parents had let her order and she’d picked the pretty pink drink to go with _bouillabaisse_ and saffron _aioli_ , and it had tasted good, so she’d figured it would probably go with just about anything.

  
Someone was throwing a very loud party. She could hear the music all the way to her floor. She shrugged. Whoever it was, well, she and Draco could just ignore them once she got to his flat -- there were Silencing and Muffling charms, after all. As she stepped onto the small landing of the stairs to Draco’s floor, however, she thought that the sound was getting louder. It was now interspersed with the chatter of various voices, and occasionally punctuated with booming male laughter and high-pitched female tittering. She slowed down her pace as she approached Draco’s door, feeling uneasy because the clamour seemed to be coming from inside his flat.

_  
Wasn’t it just us for dinner?_

  
Hermione could have hit herself at the thought. She hadn’t really thought of it, but there it was: when she’d read Draco’s invitation, she’d imagined that the dinner would just be for two. Maybe, and she was in no way admitting this out loud, she’d been thinking that there would be some nice, soft music, and candles, and smooth-flowing conversation... Why had she assumed it would be just the two of them? Not that she’d imagined anything beyond dinner, but still…!

 _  
Should I just come back later? Or maybe tomorrow?_ _But Draco’s expecting me. If I don’t arrive, he might think I snubbed him…  
  
_

Worse, he might think that she’d not turned up because it had turned out that he’d had company, and he’d twig that she’d expected a private dinner… What if he’d never meant it like she thought it was, a date? Hermione flushed to the roots of her hair. She was profoundly glad that her olive skin hid blushes fairly well, unlike certain people of her acquaintance who were so fair that the faintest of pinks were painfully obvious. Still, there was a risk that someone might notice if they peered closely enough, and Hermione had never been particularly good at hiding her emotions. She could prevaricate plausibly enough to fool Dolores Umbridge and even Bellatrix Lestrange, but only her words would be false, and not her face: she did have a considerably broader emotional range than a teaspoon, after all, but she was still the sort to wear her bleeding heart on her sleeve.

  
She dithered a few more moments until she was certain that no trace of traitorous color might betray her to any observers, and finally steeled herself to knock. However, just as she approached the ominous door, a hellion with a pile of multicolored plastic rollers restraining its hair rushed up. The terrifying being started banging loudly on Malfoy's door with a red, wooden slipper that she tore off her own foot. Hermione pulled up short as she recognized the irate Muggle woman as the landlady, Mrs Yunoichi.

  
“MR MALFOY!” the landlady hollered, punctuating each syllable with a smash that would’ve won her an Olympic medal for tennis. _Bang, bang, bang._ “MR MALFOY! MR ---”

  
The door swung open and Draco tumbled out, barely avoiding having a slipper crash into his face. Rather than recoil, he beamed, turning on the Malfoy charm as soon as he realized who was glaring at him. “Mrs Yunoichi! How may I help you this ---" his eyes flared open briefly as he noticed the unmistakable chestnut mop bobbing uncertainly beyond the landlady's mass of plastic curlers, "--- Hermione, you came after all!”

  
Hermione noticed that the suave flirtatiousness with which he’d spoken to Mrs Yunoichi dissolved into a genuine expression of surprised pleasure once he realized she was there. Unfortunately, Mrs Yunoichi noticed, too. She tapped her slipper impatiently on the door jamb to reclaim Draco’s attention. “Your party is too noisy, Mr Malfoy,” she complained. “Too many people! Drinking and having a to-do! It’s _Wednesday_ for crying out loud!”

  
Observing Draco would give her whiplash, Hermione decided, when she saw Draco once more change right before her eyes. Suddenly he was smooth and absolutely oozing sex. “Would you like to join us? We could enjoy ourselves?” he asked the landlady in a husky baritone that Hermione was sure would work on _her_ if he turned it her way. However, Mrs Yunoichi merely threw Hermione a nasty side-eye and then glared viciously at Draco.

  
“I am going to give you thirty minutes, Mr Malfoy,” she threatened. “Thirty minutes. If you don’t get all those people out of my building, I’m calling the police!”

  
“Please don’t,” Draco cajoled, now looking so wide-eyed and innocent that Hermione would have accused him of attempting a Puss in Boots expression if she hadn’t been so sure that the Pureblood wizard wouldn’t have the faintest idea what a movie was, let alone know anything about one that had come out a good decade prior. In buttery tones that Hermione would’ve compared favorably to those of Muggle celebrity (and Puss in Boots’ ridiculously sexy voice actor) Antonio Banderas, the former Hogwarts bully assured the Muggle landlady, “I’ll find a way. But at least give me an hour. There’s so many of them, it would take thirty minutes just to locate them all.”

  
Mrs Yunoichi, still furious but visibly softening in the face of such adorable imploring, crossed her arms across her chest. “Fine. An hour. But that’s all!”

  
“Yes, of course, Mrs Yunoichi. Anything for you,” Draco assured. “Um… Hermione? A little help please?”

  
Trying to keep herself as small and inoffensive as possible, Hermione walked past the furious matron and entered the tiny anteroom of Draco’s flat. Mrs Yunoichi’s nostrils flared when she noticed that her blond tenant had placed a gentlemanly hand just at the base of Hermione's waist in order to usher her into his room. Huffing in irritation, the older woman flounced away.

  
Neither Hermione nor Draco immediately joined the party. They stood in the flat's vestibule and observed the landlady from the doorway as she stormed away unevenly. Halfway down the hall the Muggle woman flung her slipper onto the floor and put it back on, and soon she had disappeared from the witch and wizard’s view. “That wasn’t a smart move,” Hermione began to tell Draco, as the two of them turned to the tiny limbo that wasn't quite the party proper just yet. Draco shrugged, a small but plainly unrepentant smile on his lips as he locked the door. Noting this, Hermione was about to continue the mild censure of her erstwhile host’s landlady-management skills, when a loud voice interrupted them from the living room.

  
“HERMIONE GRANGER!”  
  
  
Hermione went from predator to prey in less than a second. To Draco, she looked like a Seeker with two Bludgers on her tail. She swung her head towards the voice. “...Tori,” she greeted weakly.

  
Draco’s eyebrows disappeared under the sweep of his fringe. _Tori_? As in, Astoria Greengrass? He recognized the voice, of course; he would have even if he hadn't seen her arrive earlier with Blaise Zabini. After all, he'd known the Greengrass sisters practically since they were all in nappies. In fact, once upon a Voldemort-less time his parents and their parents had considered arranging a match between Draco and, well, one of the two. But in all his years of knowing the Greengrasses, he had never heard Astoria allow anyone to call her by a nickname. Nor did she make affectionate nicknames for other people... except, it seems, for _Granger_.

  
“My, my, Mione, what on earth are you wearing? You can’t possibly be joining our party dressed like that,” Astoria was fussing, hardly even paying attention to Draco. He felt his jaw unhinge but was unable to stop himself from gaping rather unattractively at the unlikely pair. In a moment Astoria had whisked an unresisting Hermione away, muttering things about “drape” and “silhouette” and “Spring 2013 collection”.

  
Confused and unable to do anything else, Draco returned to his house party. He was barely halfway through the boisterous crowd when he was accosted by another familiar face. “Oi, Malfoy,” said the burly man. “Was that Hermione I saw with you?”  
  
  
“Don’t remember inviting you, McLaggen,” Draco groused, instead of replying. He continued into the room, trying to lose the unwanted guest, but the strapping musclehead followed him around so closely that he was halfway suspecting that Hermione was right and McLaggen might be swinging his way after all. He chanced a glance back at the ripped body of the older Gryffindor and thought despairingly that if push came to shove, he didn’t think he’d be able to resist. But… well, he rather hoped Hermione was wrong, because he had absolutely no intentions of finding out whether he preferred sausages to pies. 

  
McLaggen rolled his shoulders in a motion that clearly said _If I wanted you, I could have you, boy_ . “So?” he said. “I’m here now.” To Draco’s alarm he discovered that in trying to shake McLaggen, he’d somehow managed to back himself into a corner. McLaggen noticed at almost the same time, and an amused glint shone in his eyes. He placed an arm against the wall on either side of Draco’s shoulders, effectively boxing the lithe man in. Draco gulped as McLaggen’s face drifted closer to his. He was so close that Draco could smell his aftershave, an overpowering mix of bay rum and cloves. Draco fought the urge to retch.  
  


“Was that Hermione I saw with you?” McLaggen repeated, growling low in Draco’s ear.  
  
  
Lying would have gotten him nowhere, so Draco chose prudence. “Yes.”  
  


To his surprise, however, McLaggen stepped back and started to laugh. “Good luck with that,” he said, once his mirth had died down. “That bitch blows hotter than the Sahara and colder than the Arctic. Gets a man all hot and bothered but won’t do shit for his blue balls ---”

  
Every word seemed to make Cormac McLaggen worse in Draco’s eyes, to the point that he even forgot how intimidated he’d been by the other man’s size. Draco hadn’t ever physically brawled with anyone since that time he got into an ill-conceived tussle with Ronald Weasley during the earliest Quidditch match of their first year in Hogwarts. However, he found himself very much wanting to give McLaggen a shiner. Or two. Or maybe he could rip his balls out and give him something else to jaw about ---

  
At that moment, though, Astoria’s voice rang out over the party, catching McLaggen’s attention and saving Draco from getting into something that could very well have landed him in Azkaban again.  
  


“Ladies and Gentlemen! Presenting my favorite model, Hermione Granger! Wearing my newest piece, the Nile Mermaid Princess gown!”

* * *

Hermione was going to kill Astoria Greengrass someday.

  
This wasn’t a new urge at all, of course. Hermione had developed this homicidal urge around five years ago, when Astoria had barged into Hermione’s meeting with her editor, Mr. Laurel Greengrass. Astoria had taken one look at Hermione and promptly wheedled her father into allowing his “poor beleaguered protege” to “take a little break for her sanity”. Hermione was grateful for the three minutes it took for her to realize that far from actually allowing her a bit of a rest, Astoria actually meant to make her suffer. To be precise: Astoria dragged her out of the Greengrass publishing office, forcefully side-alonged her to a shop just off Diagon Alley (Hermione would later learn that the shop was in Horizont Alley), and spent the next hour draping her in various lengths and colors of woven materials.  
  
  
Since then, all of Hermione’s garments had been either chosen or created by Astoria Greengrass. The only clothes Hermione had that didn’t have some sort of Greengrass touch were some old things she’d appropriated from Harry or Ron at some point in the distant past. Hermione’s clothes weren’t the only things that Astoria liked to meddle in, however, and in the intervening years the exuberant Pureblood had integrated herself so much into Hermione’s affairs that they might even be bosom buddies if Hermione didn’t want to throttle Tori for every other sentence she said.

  
In this particular case, the sentence was “Let’s just pop into this room and see if there’s anything I can whip into something halfway decent for a house party.”

  
It wasn’t all that terrible as far as Tori’s ideas went, except for two things: (1) “this room” turned out to be Draco’s bedroom, and (2) “anything” turned out to be Draco’s bedsheets.  
  
  
“Oooh, I knew he’d have something good,” Tori had hummed, as she ran her hands over the pearl-grey sheets on Draco’s bed. She had cheerfully ripped off Draco's pristine white duvet and its matching steel-grey coverlet, pushed them to the side in a rumpled mess, and clambered onto the foot-tall mattress. She began to rummage around until she pulled out the tag on the bedsheet. “Ooh, a 400-thread count Egyptian cotton. Rather a downgrade, Daphne once told me all Draco’s sheets in school were 1,000-thread, but not bad, not bad at all.” Apparently having decided that the sheets would do, Tori began pulling them off the bed, carelessly dumping the rest of the bedclothes in an undignified pile on the floor.

  
Hermione, who until that moment had been staring at the former Ravenclaw in a mixture of shock and horrified fascination, finally managed to croak out a protest. “Tori, you can’t mean to make me wear Draco’s _sheets_. They… he... that’s where he _sleeps_!”

  
“Tut, tut,” Tori replied (strike two, Hermione thought peevishly, who the heck actually _tuts?_ ). “Such a prude, really, Mione. And you needn’t worry… Draco’s never had the habit of leaving a mess on his sheets. Now, put down that bottle of wine and come over here.” Having successfully stripped the queen-sized, Astoria proceeded to do the same with Hermione, leaving the older girl in nothing but her lingerie. “At least you’re wearing nice ones today,” the insane stylist remarked. “Honestly, Hermione, I’ve bought you all those lovely, coordinated outfits, but you insist on dressing like some boring hipster author lady…” 

  
Hermione, who actually _was_ a “boring, hipster, author lady”, winced. But she knew from experience that the more she complained and resisted, the worse Tori would get, and she would simply never stop until she got what she wanted. So she let her do as she would… which in this case was garb Hermione in a sort of weird toga-gown thing that was transfigured from the said sheets and one of the tasseled curtain-pulls that Astoria severed from the window drapery. After some poking and turning, a tuck here and a fold there, an extra billow put in with the judicious use of a partial Engorgement Charm, Astoria apparently decided that she was finished with her masterpiece.

  
And then, of course, she would hear of nothing but Hermione coming out with her, to be presented to the mob.

  
A quarter of an hour (or, to Hermione’s reckoning, an entire lifetime) later, Hermione finally managed to extricate herself from the throng. Her bottle of rosé was left behind in Draco’s bedroom, and she wasn’t about to brave the den of rowdy rabble just to get it. Instead, having found herself in a relatively quiet alcove in the flat’s tiny kitchenette, she decided to acquaint herself with a bottle of her host’s firewhiskey that was conveniently lying about.

  
This was where Draco found her, several fingers of liquor later. “Granger!” he gasped. “Why in Merlin’s name are you hiding here? I thought you were with Astoria.”

  
“Tori decided she wanted to make an eiderdown coat out of your duvet," she informed him, though she was mumbling it more to her drink. "I wasn't having it, so I went looking for my host." She peered at him with mild accusation. "You invited me, remember? Though it looks like you invited the neighborhood, too.” With a philosophical shrug of her shoulders, she raised her snifter at him mockingly, toasting him with her (technically his) Strathisla single-malt neat. 

  
Draco looked sheepish. “I hadn’t meant to throw a party, honest,” he said. “I’d only invited a couple of friends over -- Blaise, actually, and you, that’s all. I didn’t know he’d bring more people, but I haven’t been able to send them off at all.” He scratched his head. “And now I’ve got about twenty minutes before Mrs Yunoichi calls the cops on me… Honestly, Granger, I would’ve thought you’d be helping me.”

  
“Why? Because I’m a _hero_?”  
  
  
Draco looked at her oddly. “No. Because you’re a private person and this was supposed to be a private dinner.”

  
The confirmation of the _private_ dinner mollified Hermione, but she still felt like sulking just a bit. She snipped, “Well, I’m busy people-watching right now. Research for my novels.” It was partly true, even if it would have been more accurate to say that she was drowning her disappointment in this non-date with ill-advised alcohol. Really, she people-watched all the time! Just to prove it, Hermione decided to point out a rather buxom older woman whom she did not know, who was being trailed by a pair of beautiful, exotic-looking young men. “Look at her for example. **She’d be an interesting person to put in my next book.** ”  
  
  
Draco followed Hermione’s gaze and snorted in disdain. She'd pointed to one of the various friends-of-a-friend that Blaise had brought with him. “ **She seems like a vapid sort of woman**.” Rich and brainless, with a preference for hot younger men. The sort of person that Draco might target if he got desperate enough for money, not that he was looking.  
  


Hermione’s gaze flicked over to Draco and she seemed to know what he was thinking. She made a small, dismissive sound in the back of her throat, and tried to hide it by taking a sip of her whiskey. Then she said, just to needle Draco, “ **But just look at the goodies she’s brought.** ”

  
The look he was giving her implied that he knew just what she was suggesting. He smirked. “They’re **all right, I suppose, if you like dark, handsome, rich-looking men with passionate natures and too many teeth,** ” he allowed. “But really, I don’t know any of these people, and I _would_ appreciate it if you helped me get rid of them.”

  
 _Frick, he’s doing the Puss in Boots face again_ , Hermione realized, nearly spitting out her whiskey. _Ugh_. It was unfair. “Fine,” she said, mentally bidding a fond farewell to the expensive alcohol and straightening herself out. Just at that moment, however, there is a shrill, high-pitched scream, and Cormac McLaggen rushed into the kitchen.

  
His hair was on fire, the smell of burning alcohol permeating the room. Also, Mr Crooks was hanging off his back, claws sunk deep into the flesh of the former Gryffindor’s impressive deltoids like a champion rock climber clutching at the sheer wall of a cliff.

  
Draco and Hermione sprang into action, a seamless team. Hermione went for her wand while Draco went for the cat.   
  
  
They had hardly had a breather, however, when the door slammed open. “POLICE!” came the announcement.  
  
  
“FUCK!” Draco exclaimed. “Everyone clear out!”  
  
  
There was a mad scramble as all the guests tried to find a place to Disapparate from without being seen by the Muggles. Hermione, Mr Crooks safely in hand, decided to take the opportunity to restore herself to her original outfit, and so she went back to Draco’s room. Astoria seemed to have managed to leave without any more trouble, so she put herself to rights. She had just managed to return the sheet to Draco’s bed when the man himself entered the room. He startled to see her there, then relaxed.  
  
  
“It’s been a right mess,” he told her. “I helped McLaggen out through the toilet window, and who were there but Pansy and Blaise, snogging? I sent them out too. Mrs Yunoichi threatened to throw me out. I don't want to be thrown out, this is the only place that will let me stay despite my past…”

  
“Whoa, breathe, Draco,” Hermione interrupted his rant. “You’re rambling.”

  
“Sorry,” he said. “Just… nothing went the way I wanted to this evening, you know?”  
  
  
Hermione nodded. “It’s fine, we’re fine,” she assured him in a soothing voice. “Um, listen, Mr Crooks and I are for bed in a bit, but would you like to have a bite of breakfast tomorrow?”

  
He blinked at her, uncertain for a moment.

  
“I mean, if you don’t want to ---”  
  


“I do!” Draco jumped in. “I mean. I do. I was just… confused a bit. But yes, breakfast would be good. I know a good place, it’s just in front of Tiffany’s…”  
  


* * *

One breakfast led to another, and a week later Hermione and Draco were still going out to eat their morning repast together at Sally’s cafe. Hermione liked the rotund older woman, who would cheerfully tell Draco about the football games scheduled for the next week and remind him to owl someone about it.

  
“She’s a Squib,” Draco told Hermione, as they walked back to their residential complex. “She’s got a wizard cousin who likes to keep track of the football season, but she doesn't have an owl and can’t contact our people without them contacting her first, so when she found out that I’m a wizard, she started to ask me to send owls for her.”  
  
  
“I see,” Hermione said. “That’s sweet of you. That really is a problem, actually. I always used to have to borrow Hedwig, Harry’s owl.”

  
“It must have been hard for your parents too. How did they send you anything?”  
  
  
Hermione’s face fell. Draco knew immediately that he’d said the wrong thing. However, now that he knew something was wrong, he didn’t know what he could say to make it better. The two of them fell into an uncomfortable silence that continued until they got back to their building. Once they got to Draco’s floor, Hermione mumbled an awkward thanks and practically ran to her apartment, stiff upper lip long gone.  
  
  
It was strange how drab his apartment was, now that Hermione hadn’t come in with him to chat, like she’d done all the past week. Draco could guess that it was his mentioning her parents that had set Hermione off, but what was he supposed to do about it? For the first time since the night of their reunion Draco remembered that he and Hermione had been on opposite sides of a war, and that his side had gone after hers with torture and murder at the tips of their wands. Had they…? But he hadn’t remembered any mission involving the Grangers, and they were fairly high-profile Muggles, considering who their daughter was to the Boy-Who-Lived. So what could have happened?  
  
  
A melancholy sound drifted into Draco’s ears. He frowned when he realized that the sound was Hermione’s voice, though he couldn’t quite understand what she was singing. Entranced, he went to his window and threw it open, looking up at the neighbor he’d just been thinking about. She was sitting on her window-sill, playing the guitar and singing along to it, a song he didn’t know. Her voice was a low, husky warble, like she’d been crying. “ _Moon river, wider than a mile, I'm crossing you in style someday_ ,” she crooned, making no sense but sounding surprisingly melodious, “ _Oh, dream maker, you heart breaker, wherever you're going, I'm going your way_...” 

  
She sang several more chords, repeating the chorus twice, before she petered off and just plucked at the guitar strings. Eventually even that stopped, and she looked down on Draco with a wan smile.

  
“I liked your performance,” Draco blurted out.  
  


“It’s a rare thing,” she replied. “I only sing when I have the blues.”  
  
  
Draco nodded sagely. “And what do you do when you get the reds?”

  
Her face looked blank. “You mean, like… my woman’s…”

  
“No! But just… You know,” Draco stuttered, suddenly embarrassed. “ **The blues are because you're getting fat and maybe it's been raining too long, you're just sad that's all. The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you're afraid and you don't know what you're afraid of. Do you ever get that feeling?** ”

  
“ **Sure** ,” Hermione agreed, though her expression was suspicious. Draco felt like he had to explain himself some more.

  
“ **Well, when I get it the only thing that does any good is to jump in a** taxi **and go to Tiffany's. Calms me down right away. The quietness and the proud look of it; nothing very bad could happen to you there. It’s a lot like home I guess.** ”  
  


This made Hermione’s expression finally clear up. With a faraway, thoughtful gaze, she said, “ **We’re all looking for a home, I suppose.** ” Her visage sharpened into alertness suddenly and Draco knew that things would be alright. “But see here, Draco, you can’t just make idioms up, you know.”  
  
  
He shrugged, glad that he’d drawn her out of her brown study. “Well, someone’s got to be the first ---”

  
BANG, BANG, BANG.  
  
  
“--- hang on, that’s the door,” Draco said, frowning. Hermione smiled gently and shooed him away. Draco slipped back into his room and hurried to open the front door, wondering what the matter could be.  
  
  
“Gentleman outside looking for ya,” Mrs Yunoichi told him, looking unhappy at this development. “Says his name is Ronald Weasley.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything in **bold** is directly quoted from the movie.
> 
> BONUS VISUALS:
> 
> This is the actual sheet dress from the movie:  
> 
> 
>   
> 
> 
> But honestly, I was thinking a little bit more like The Little Mermaid:  
> 
> 
>   
> 
> 
> Also, actual visual of Holly singing Moon River. Just imagine it to be Hermione, ayt?  
> 
> 
>   
> 


	3. In Which Draco Has Difficulties Handling Gryffindors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco endures two very awkward not-dates, the first with Ron Weasley, the second with Hermione Granger.

Ronald Bilius Weasley: Quidditch Keeper-turned-war hero, co-proprietor of popular prank store chain Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, best friend of The Boy Who Would Not Die. Also, as far as Draco knew, once-upon-a-time soulmate of the brown-eyed beauty currently residing two floors above his flat. None of these iterations gave Draco any clue why Weasley would be looking for him, quietly and politely, instead of going straight up to Granger’s flat -- or perhaps for Draco’s jugular. The Muggles had some sort of saying about curiosity killing the crab or suchlike, Draco recalled vaguely. Well, let him be a crab, then. He needed to know what Weasley was on about. It wasn’t like Weasley could take him down in a fair fight in the middle of a Muggle neighborhood, anyway…

Draco didn’t know what he expected to see when he finally exited his building, but it wasn’t a tall, solidly-built redhead wearing a checkered button-down with sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular arms, long legs stuffed into faded denims with holes that looked just random enough to be artistic rather than accidental. He was draped in a would-be casual pose against a nearby telephone pole, attracting curious glances from random Muggle women who peered discreetly at him and giggled nervously as they passed by. He seemed to be too deep in thought to notice the flirtatious females. On the other hand, the former Slytherin was painfully aware of the effects of that “boy-next- door” appeal. Even though Muggles knew nothing about Weasley’s or Draco’s post-war status, they still flocked towards the ginger like moths to a flame. No need to even wonder how the two of them would compare if they were among wizarding folk.

A small twinge of envy tugged at the blond’s stomach. He pulled himself up to his full height, eyeing where he would reach if he stood next to the ginger, and a brief memory of his parents came to mind. His mother had once told him, “The key, Draco, is to hold yourself confidently so that you  _ look _ tall.” His father had added, “Chin up and head high. You’re better than everyone else.” He’d believed every word they’d told him until he’d realized how much of it was rot. Forget “being better” in any sense of the word; even in things as simple as body size, his parents’ words held no water. No amount of straight posture would erase the fact that Ronald Weasley stood a good half a head higher than he did, and seemed to weigh about a stone heavier as well. How had he thought that Weasley wouldn’t be able to take him in a fight?

Draco grumbled inwardly a little as his thoughts veered to the  _ other _ Gryffindor Keeper he’d recently encountered, who was  _ also _ taller and beefier than he was. Not that he was comparing himself with them and feeling unattractive or insecure or anything, of course, who said anything about that? But honestly, what did Godric Gryffindor have in his tower that made his damned cubs grow so… king of the jungle-y? Even Hermione had thigh muscles that could clench around a man’s head -- dammit, yes, he’d been looking --

The thought of  _ his _ lioness gave Draco the boost he wasn’t willing to admit that he needed. Dusting off his impeccably-pressed, one-year-late couture jacket and adjusting its matching tie, he swept towards the man whom he had once deemed too unimportant to be “the right sort”. He kept his tone distant but polite as he said, “Weasley.”

The other wizard, hearing his name, finally came out of his reverie. Draco observed him discreetly as he stood up and brushed his hands against the hips of his jeans.  _ Nervous _ , Draco thought. “Malfoy,” the redhead said, reaching out his left hand for a shake, which Draco took out of habit. Weasley seemed to be as surprised as Draco when the exchange of pleasantries was concluded without one of them pulling a wand on the other.

The two of them stared at each other for a long, awkward moment, neither quite willing to break the odd lack of hostility. The partially-muted yowl of an angry cat, somewhere behind them, shattered the silence for them. Weasley stuffed his hands into his pockets and Draco crossed his arms over his chest. “Something I can help you with?” he asked.

Weasley chuckled lowly. “Not something I ever thought I’d hear you say to me,” he said, “but as it happens, yes.” His eyes darted around the facade of Draco’s building, like an Auror casing a joint -- force of habit, perhaps, Draco supposed. The redhead swallowed before he spoke again. “I… um. Is there any place we can go to talk, in private?”

Draco’s eyebrows rose in surprise. Several possibilities came to his mind, but none of them seemed appropriate considering whom he was with. In the end, he couldn’t find any witty retort and had to reply with a simple, “There’s a cafe I like to go to. I could ask the owner to let us have a closed room.” He looked over his erstwhile companion and sighed. “I’ll call a taxi. I’m pretty sure you don’t have Muggle money on you, so I’ll pay.”

Weasley looked at him strangely. “Why don’t you just Apparate me Side-along?”

“I’m not going to  _ touch _ you more than I absolutely have to, Weasley.”

“Huh, that’s fair.”

After the world’s most awkward taxi ride, Draco and Weasley finally arrived at the tiny cafe in front of the Tiffany store along Oxford Street. Draco paid the driver and gave him a generous tip, then led the way into the shop. As usual, Sally was at the counter.

“This is a surprise, Mr Draco,” she said by way of greeting. “Where’s the lass yer usually with?”

“She’s at home,” he said unhelpfully. “Listen, Sal, do you think my friend and I could have a private booth? We’ve got some catching up to do.” 

“Och, sure, nobody goes out back,” she replied cheerily. “Take a left past the toilet, up the stairs -- it’s a short flight -- and just remember ta turn off the lights once yer done. I’ll take yer usual up if you like, what’ll yer companion have?”

“Weasley--”

The redhead was ahead of him on this one. He was already at the counter, contemplating the menu with the air of a gourmet. After a moment he informed Sally that he was ordering a “triple, half-and-half, unsweetened, pumpkin spice latte with extra cinnamon” and “two of those black sesame bagels with cream cheese and ham slices on the side, please and thank you”. Weasley turned and, apparently catching sight of the absolutely disgusted look on Draco’s face, shrugged and said, “Hey, I’m on a diet.”

Several silent and palpably painful minutes later, Draco and Weasley were settled into a room, locked in a stare-off while their food had not yet arrived. Weasley’s eyes kept darting towards the door and around the room, as if he didn’t quite trust the privacy of a Muggle cafe. He glanced sideways at Draco, apparently trying to gauge his reaction, as he began to pull out his wand; he seemed to think of something and paused halfway into the action. “I’m going to ward us in,” he explained.

Instead of assuring the Weasel that he wasn’t about to attack him in a Muggle place -- not to mention one owned by his friend -- Draco merely tilted his head in acknowledgement. The other man seemed to recognize that such was all he was going to get. He shrugged and continued, pulling off a series of protection and concealment spells so complicated and seamless that the former Death Eater was both surprised at his skill and afraid to ask how and why he’d learned it. “Ah, and an exception for the Muggle,” Weasley muttered, adding in another flourish at the end of his spell-casting. He stared into space for a while after; whether to rest himself or to check if he’d done the wards right, Draco didn’t know.

Finally Weasley seemed satisfied. He returned to the table and fixed Draco with a stare. “Malfoy,” he said, in the tone of someone who’d steeled themself to do something and would absolutely brook no quarter, “I need you to help me talk to Hermione -- my wife.”

* * *

Ronald Weasley had grown up a lot in the decade and more since the end of the Second Wizarding War of Britain, but he was not so different that he could not enjoy the expression that flashed across Draco Malfoy’s face at the phrase “my wife”. There was confusion and surprise, and Ron thought he could just make out a barely-leashed horror trying to come out. Malfoy had never had quite the level of facial stoicism that his parents excelled at. Perhaps it was something he got from being a spoiled only child, but a careful observer would be able to catch the tails of his true emotions before he could stuff them behind his mask of cool indifference. Ronald Weasley, youngest of six boys -- four ready to prank him and the fifth with a razor-thin patience for the antics of his siblings -- was a master at reading such fleeting expressions. It was part of what made him good at chess, and something that helped him to survive a war.

Sadly, Ron reflected, it wasn’t enough to save his marriage.

“I know you’re friends now, strange as that may seem,” he prodded, taking note of the brief tightening around the other man’s mouth before it settled into its usual politely uncaring sneer. He thought it was a strange development; he’d heard from McLaggen that Malfoy and Hermione had been hanging around each other lately, but he hadn’t believed it until he’d seen the two of them arrive from their usual breakfast date the day before. The two of them hadn’t been holding hands or anything, but they’d been so deep in a conversation involving the ethics of turning living creatures into inanimate objects that they'd utterly failed to notice Ron’s presence. He’d stood there, barely concealed behind a Daily Prophet, and neither of the two had spared him a glance while Hermione rummaged through her bag and Malfoy finally keyed them in. A younger, less mature Ron would have suspected Hermione of deliberately ignoring him… and had, in similar instances in the past.

But he was older now. No, Ronald Weasley was not going to suspect Hermione Granger of deliberately ignoring him. He  _ knew  _ she was doing it on purpose. That was why he’d gotten this desperate. “Please, Malfoy,” he gritted out between his teeth. “I really need to talk to Hermione, but she won’t give me a chance. She won’t read my owls, she’s blocked me from her Floo…” Based on the fact that he'd once tried to enter the building and then come to his senses several minutes later, two blocks down the street, with no clear memory of how he'd got there, he also suspected that she had put in some sort of Befuddlement Charm on her wards and keyed it to work only on him, but he wasn’t about to admit that to Malfoy.

Still, Malfoy seemed to have heard enough. He steepled his fingers against his lips, a frown creasing his brow. Somehow with his gleaming hair and expensive-looking suit he looked more villainous than he had with Death Eater robes in the war -- and far more threatening than he had mere minutes earlier. “In my experience, Weasley,” he said in a voice that made the hairs on the back of Ron’s arms prickle, “when a woman goes that far, it's usually because something set her off that she really, really doesn't like.”

He stood up, looking very much done with the conversation. Ron could see his last chance about to slip away. In a panic, he flung himself half off his seat and latched onto Malfoy’s arm. “I asked her if we could start a family! Okay? That’s what we fought about,” he blurted out, heedless now of how ridiculous he looked. “That was all, honest.” Malfoy made no move to yank his sleeve out of Ron’s grip, so the ginger risked looking up at his former school nemesis. The blond was doing his best to keep his expression shuttered, but Ron was willing to bet that the lack of outright hostility meant that he had a chance to convince Malfoy to help him. First, however, he had to make sure that his position was clear. “I just want to talk to Hermione, okay? I’m not going to hurt her. If we talk and she tells me to go, I will. But I can’t let her go without putting up a fight.”

Malfoy turned a steely gaze at Ron, who met it unwaveringly. Without breaking their stare-down, Malfoy used two fingertips to pluck Ron’s clammy hands off his arm. He brushed off his sleeve, still glaring at the redhead. Just when Ron was ready to give it up as a bad job, however, Malfoy began, “Suppose I ask her to meet you, and she agrees…”

“I know it’s a huge ask,” Ron assured him, thinking he knew where this was going. “I wouldn’t expect you to do it for nothing. If you can convince her to talk to me, I’ll pull some strings, help you get back on your feet. Is there anything you want done? Maybe visits from your mother, or permission for an owl...?” Malfoy looked disbelieving, and Ron gave a low, self-deprecating chuckle. “Listen, I know that you could probably buy me and my entire family several times over, but I’m part of the Golden Trio, you know? Harry Potter’s best friend, and all. I ---”

Malfoy interrupted him, visibly impatient. “When do you want to meet up with her? I’ll tell her, but I make no promises of getting her to agree.”

Surprised at how fast Malfoy had capitulated, Ron fell heavily back onto his chair. He’d expected to have to grovel quite a bit longer, but he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. “I… um… next Thursday? We could meet here, maybe?”

Malfoy nodded curtly. He made to leave again, and this time Ron made no attempt to stop him. At the door, Malfoy paused. “The food’s here,” he said without looking back. “You can have mine too. You get the tab.”

Wisely, Ron decided not to remind Malfoy that he had said earlier that he would pay. Luckily he actually did have Muggle money on him. He stood up and went to fetch the dishes that were arranged just outside the wards of their room. By the time he got to the door, Malfoy was out of sight.

* * *

Asking Hermione to talk to her apparent husband wasn’t proper breakfast conversation, so Draco decided to take a bottle of 2007 Argentinian Malbec, a garlicky batard, and some reheated mushroom and cheese bisque upstairs that evening. He figured he’d feed her and wine her, and when she was in a nicely agreeable zone, he’d pop the unpleasant topic of the Weasel. As an afterthought he also prepared a small can of salmon mousse for Mr Crooksy; he wouldn’t be able to get into such a gritty conversation if the master of the house were making goo-goo eyes at the humans’ dinner.

Still, drawing up his battle plan was quite a different dinosaur from actually putting it into action. Once he’d knocked at her door and been admitted to her flat, he realized that he’d never actually entered the front door before -- and this, coupled with the view of Hermione with her glorious mane flaring like a halo all around her head, started a train of thought that set Draco’s heart pounding and his blood rushing to places decidedly not germane to discussions about redheaded exes. Draco stammered something only halfway coherent about decanting his wine. He made his way to Hermione’s kitchen, where he took the opportunity to collect his wits over the plain white ceramic dinnerware.

“I don’t know if anyone’s ever told you, Draco, but there’s this little spell we call  _ Accio _ ,” he heard Hermione say with a low chuckle as he placed a pair of wine glasses on the table . He knew even without turning towards her that she’d be leaning against her door with her arms crossed over her chest, pushing up her cleavage into something he’d really better not get into if he didn’t want to disgrace himself like a thirteen-year-old with a first crush. Probably wearing a smirk on her adorable lips too, and damn if he didn’t know where she’d picked up that habit from. 

“Well, I seem to remember someone telling me that we shouldn’t be using magic for every piddling little thing, not when it would be just as easy and simple to use our hands,” the blond said, taking out a pair of forks and laying them just so on the table in their respective place settings.

“Yes, of course. Good, sound advice lifted straight from Molly Weasley, circa 1994,” nodded Hermione. At the mention of the W-word, Draco nearly dropped the soup bowl he was holding. Such uncanny timing --- “Oh come on, Draco, you can’t still be in a snit over anything Weasley- related? I heard that the Malfoy-Weasley… thing… wasn’t even much of a dispute at first...”

Swallowing the heart that had leapt into his throat, Draco decided to take the lifeline that Hermione had unknowingly offered him. He put on his snootiest air. “Of course I would be offended, as a proper Malfoy,” he told Hermione, whose sneer said that she was totally not buying any of his tripe. Still, in for a Knut, in for a Galleon. “Those absolute philistines break their eggs from the small end, when any civilized person would know that the only proper way to eat an egg is from the large end.”

“Mm, how absolutely straight out of Jonathan Swift,” Hermione remarked, sitting down at the table and toying with her silverware. She fixed her guest with a penetrating stare. “Really, Draco, what’s gotten into you?”

They hadn’t even started dinner yet, and she had already offered him a perfect opening. Inwardly thanking the gods for small mercies, Draco carefully chose his next words as he sliced the garlic bread and placed a couple of pieces on each of their plates. “I’ve been thinking about you,” he said, quite truthfully. Lying was not something that would get very far with Hermione Granger. “I always expected that, after the war, you’d end up with either Potter or Weasley. Join the workforce, be absolutely fantastic, pop out a couple of kids and still become the younger-ever Minister of Magic.” Out of the corner of his eyes, he noticed that her nostrils had begun to flare. He quickly backtracked to get her right where he wanted her, ladling out the bisque for good measure. “I mean… now you’re a hugely popular novelist, and you’re living in the flat above mine and we’re friends, and all of that --- that’s amazing, but it… just wasn’t at all what I expected would happen.” 

To Draco’s relief, Hermione laughed. She picked up her empty wine glass -- Draco hadn’t gotten around to pouring the Malbec yet, but didn’t miss the cue. He opted not to remark on the fact that the wine glasses weren’t quite tall enough for a full-bodied red (but what did he expect from a woman who drank ros é with bouillabaisse?) in favor of keeping Hermione’s mood light enough to spill the beans. He took the wine glass from Hermione and set it flat on the table before him, turning the decanter horizontally with its rim a good inch above the opening of the glass, and pouring with a steady, practiced rhythm. When he stopped pouring, Hermione took the wine and gave it an appreciative sniff before she took a sip and let it slide around her mouth.

“I’m tasting… mostly blackberry, with hints of cocoa powder, something mildly flowery, and a tobacco finish,” she said, smacking her lips.

Draco raised his eyebrows. “Yes, it’s a rather fruitier red, but I’m surprised you managed to pick out those notes,” he said. “I was under the impression that you mostly drank the alcohol with the highest proof that you could get your hands on. Or that you liked the color of.”

“Well, this does have a rather interesting color,” Hermione agreed, raising her glass up to peer at it against the light. “Kind of purple with a… red rim, would you say? Ha, you’ve got me sounding like a wine snob now.” She lowered her glass and drank a little bit more. Draco nearly warned her not to drink so much before she ate anything, but she set her glass on the table and picked up a piece of garlic bread. Her eyes weren’t focused as she tore off a morsel and brought it to her lips.

“You know,” she said, after she had chewed carefully and swallowed her bit of food, “I’m not surprised you thought that. I mean, obviously Harry liked Ginny and I wouldn’t have gotten in between them for anything, but I think everyone thought Ron and I would be endgame material. Even Ron and I thought so.” She picked up her soup spoon and took a demure mouthful of the bisque. “Oh, this is good. Did you make this?”

“Yes, but it’s actually just leftovers from yesterday’s dinner,” Draco admitted ruefully, taking a sip of his own dish. “So you and Weasley…?”

She sent him a crooked grin. “You’re really curious, huh?” He shrugged, offering her what he hoped was a placating smile in return. She ate a little more soup before she continued. “Actually… when we were young, I had a crush on Harry,” she said. “But by the time we were in fourth, I liked Ron. And that feeling stayed with me, even though I had other crushes -- everyone knows I dated Viktor for awhile, and in fifth I kind of had a thing for Theo --”

Draco nearly choked on his garlic bread. “Theo… Theodore Nott?”

Hermione giggled. “Oh, I forgot, of course you’d know Theo… are you friends? I didn’t really see him hanging out with other Slytherins back then. We were in Ancient Runes together, and he was just so  _ smart _ , and he had this broody sort of thing going… I mean, he never talked to me, but he never talked to  _ anyone _ , and he never bullied any of the Muggleborns...”

Draco took a hearty swig of his red wine. “I thought this was a story about you and Weasel, not about your unrequited love for a pureblood Slytherin from a dark family.”

“Hmmm, I dunno, I wonder if that was a sign even way back then? I liked Ron, but I was also constantly attracted to --- maybe I have a type?” She looked thoughtful for a moment, and Draco took another long pull of wine. Maybe Hermione had a reason for wanting a strong drink all the time. He watched her tug absently at a strand of hair before she continued. “Anyway, even though I liked other people, I also always liked Ron. I’d get so jealous of Lavender when she went around practically glued to him at the mouth… then, Harry and Ron and I went Horcrux-hunting. There was a really bad time when Ron left Harry and me, but Ron came back, and after that we started sleeping together --- frick,  _ anapneo _ ,” she said, pointing her wand at Draco.

The blond felt his airways clear as the piece of bread he had accidentally inhaled disappeared with the spell. “Thanks for that, Granger,” he gasped. “That’s twice now you’ve dropped a bomb on me. Warn a guy next time, would you?”

Hermione looked confused for a moment. Then she swatted Draco as hard as she could from across the table. “Not  _ that _ way, you pervert -- we were barely seventeen and sharing a tent with Harry!” she hissed.

“I mean, if it were me, I’d have found a way ---”

She whacked him again.

He winced, but got distracted. It was hard to tell because she wasn’t pale-skinned, but was Hermione blushing? He decided to help her out a little. “So you and Weasley started catching feelings in a tent in the wilderness. Check. Then what happened?”

She huffed. How could that tiny sound be so cute? He waved a bit of bread at her, wordlessly encouraging her to resume her story, which she did. “Well, at the Battle of Hogwarts we needed to find some things to destroy Horcruxes with, so Ron and I went down to the Chamber of Secrets --- I told you about this last week, it’s in Harriet Flutter number two --- and got some basilisk fangs. Then Ron said we should free the Hogwarts house-elves so they could run away if they didn’t want to fight, and I just got… so  _ overwhelmed _ with it all… that I basically jumped on him and snogged his tonsils off.”

Draco snorted at the visual. “You know, I can definitely tell that you’re a writer,” he remarked. “Such ingenuous verbiage.”

“Sod you,” she replied without heat. “Right, so I ended up sucking face with Ron, and then blah blah and we won the Battle, and of course it was all such a mess for a while with all the funeral arrangements and repairs and stuff. But practically the moment everything settled down, Ron just pops the question one family lunch at the Burrow, and everyone was looking at me and all I wanted was to run away with Ron to the Shrieking Shack and just… relieve our stress, you know?” She laughed, but the sound seemed rather hollow to Draco. “So I said yes, and everyone was so happy, and I was so happy, and it didn’t matter that Ron and I didn’t have a place of our own or jobs to support ourselves, or anything really.”

Her spoon scraped the bottom of her bowl and Draco realized, to his surprise that she had somehow finished all of her soup. In fact, he had finished his as well. He silently offered her another slice of bread but she waved it away. Draco shrugged and began to chew on it as Hermione returned to her story.

“Harry very kindly lent us his London townhouse, the old Black property, saying that we could live there while he went soul-searching, and that was when the problems started…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So I found a bit of trivia! The Tiffany store in this fic is in Oxford Street (there’s another Tiffany in Covent Garden), but just a couple of blocks down is the Moon River cafe. Someone is a fan, maybe.
> 
> I am SO VERY SORRY this chapter took so long. I had RL problems -- lost my job over a book deal that my employers refused to pay me for after I had already written it (and got fired after I complained! SO AMAZING) and I got too down-hearted to write. Ended up drowning my sorrows in EIGHT rebuilds of Malfoy Manor on Sims 4… then I built #4 Privet Drive… and the Potters’ cottage in Godric’s Hollow… and decided to empty the entirety of Willow Creek to turn it into Harry Potter builds (and Windenburg into Emelan, but that’s literally a whole other story). Finally I managed to push myself into writing again and this came out. And refused to stop coming out…
> 
> Actually, in my story outline, it wasn’t supposed to end here, but this chapter turned out to be a monster. I cut it off at ten pages on Google Docs and posted it (unbeta’d) because I didn’t want another posting deadline to pass without an update, even though it was a little shorter than normal -- my usual chapters are about 12 or so pages long. Then I realized I was actually already a day late, but screw it. Anyway I’m NOT DROPPING this story -- thanks SO MUCH to the people who have been commenting! The story outline is complete, even though I ended up cutting this section into two parts. I will try my best to be able to post again on my proper schedule in March, and complete this story by April.
> 
> P.S. I'm glad that people enjoyed Astoria's cameo in the previous chapter. I wonder how you'll react to Ron? I'm trying so hard to make him likeable, even admirable, for two reasons: (1) there are too many Ron-bashing Dramiones around, and (2) I really liked the character of Holly Golightly's husband, even though I didn't want them to be together. I think Ron was just really suitable to place into that role, because I do like Ron, I just don't like him for Hermione. We're going to be seeing more of Ron in the next chapter, so I hope you're not too displeased about his presence...


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